


TIME

by charlie4short



Series: Flagstaff To Stanford [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Feels, pre-season
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-07 08:02:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14666789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlie4short/pseuds/charlie4short
Summary: Sam leaving for Stanford was the worst night of Dean's life.  Four years later, they are reunited on a hunt for their missing father, but they haven't talked in years and Sam is harboring a deep resentment for his big brother.  What the hell happened in those four intervening years?  Well...let's find out, shall we?Sequel to "Breathe".





	1. T1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the worst night of Dean's life.

* * *

 

Ankles crossed, arms wrapped over the pillow that hid his head: Dean was ready.  Ready to  hold still; ready to keep quiet; to smother his cries or moans or whatever noises his body decided to make.

 

Inhale.

Exhale.   _Relax_.

_Don’t anticipate.  That only makes it worse._

 

He was bared to the waist.  Gooseflesh pimpled his exposed skin.

  _Hope Sammy found a ride already. Hope he’s safe._

 

A floorboard creaked.

 Dean pictured his father poised beside the bed, arm raised high, free end of the belt loose and hungry, like a basilisk's tongue.

 

Inhale.

Exhale.   _Relax_.

 

 _Why hasn’t he started already?  Did he decide to use something else?_  

An image of the whip, coiled and bloody on the floor of Bobby’s shop, filled Dean's mind.

He shuddered. _Should have burned that damned thing._

 

The distinctive rumble of a GMC pickup engine reached him through the cocoon Dean had created for himself.  He lifted one arm, peering out tentatively from the edge of his haven.

“Dad?”

He pushed up.

The room was small, and his eyes swept it quickly.

“Dad?”

The bathroom door stood open.  Empty.

 

“Shit!”

 

Dean scrambled to his feet, reaching for his phone.

 

* * *

 

Sam trudged along the shoulder of the night-dark highway.

Cooling sweat chilled him.

 

When Dean’s voice -- _“Just go!”_ propelled him out of the room, Sam ran.  

   

 

> _His big brother stepping in front of him_
> 
> _Dean on the ground_
> 
> _John’s fists leaving his battered older son_
> 
> _Coming for Sam_

 

Dean had pulled a gun on their father.  Had -- from his waistband, no doubt -- produced the very pistol that John had gifted to his oldest son.

He'd aimed it.

Cocked the hammer back.

Forced John Winchester to stand down.

 

_I can’t believe he did that._

 

And when that same brother ordered Sam to go, he left.  No hesitation, no questions.

No looking back.

 

In terror and disbelief and an utter failure of courage: Sam had run.

 

Now he walked, occasionally remembering to hold out his thumb, but mostly staring down at the cell phone cradled in his palm, praying for it to ring.

 

* * *

  
  
Dean pulled his shirt over his head one-handed, listening for a break in the ringtone on the other end of the line.

 

_/“Dean?”/_

“Jesus.  Sam.” His knees felt oddly weak. He moved to the window, ignoring the sudden urge to sit down and cry with relief.  “Dad’s gone. Where are you? Are you safe?”

_/“Yeah. Got a lift pretty quick.”/_

Dean raised a familiar key chain from the counter by the door.   _The Impala._ “Got a lift with _who_?”

/" _Truck driver.  Long haul, headed to San Jose.”/_

 

>   _They half carry, half drag him into the house_
> 
> _Hands, so many hands_
> 
> _Jeans are gone_

 

“You _what_ ?  Jesus, Sam!"  He ran a hand through his hair, pacing.  _Over-grown, unwashed, lecherous_ \-- "Are you crazy?  Tell me you at _least_ have your pistol!”

_/“I have it, and it’s fine.  Her name is Margaret -- Mags, for short -- and she’s got a son my age going to college to learn about diesel engine repair.”/_

Dean pictured a soft, matronly woman with a warm smile, and his heart rate slowed.  “Jesus Christ, Sam. You’re going to be the death of me.” Now that he knew to listen for it, he could detect the thrum of the large commercial vehicle. Country music twanged in the background.

_/”How about you?  Are you okay?/_

“Yeah.  He...he never touched me.  I was ready, you know? And he just...left.  Didn’t say anything. Just: gone.”

_/”And you think--”/_

“I don’t know, Sam,” Dean cut him off, suddenly impatient.  “But I won’t believe that you’re safe until I find him.”

_/”Well, Mags said that she won’t be fueling up again until Reno at the soonest.”/_

“Perfect.  You just stick with her then, and if Dad calls, don’t tell him where you’re at.”

_/”Alright.  Dean?”/_

“Yeah, Sammy?”

_/”Be careful.”/_

“Always.  Text me at your next stop.”  He paused. “Night, bitch.”

_/”Love you, too, jerk.”/_

 

Dean pocketed his phone, palmed his keys, and left the room.

 

* * *

 

Figuring that his father hadn’t been gone more than a minute or two, Dean’s first act was to streak out of the parking lot on a direct course to the highway.  As soon as he got there, he opened his baby’s engine up, pushing her to one-twenty on the flats.

 

The eighth semi he passed on the right earned him a startled look from familiar hazel eyes under a long flop of curling bangs.

 _Sammy_.

He fishtailed into the next illegal u-turn he came to and headed back to Dillon, slowing to a speed that was less likely to get him arrested.

 

Twenty-seven minutes.

 

He found the bus station next, cruising the surrounding parking areas in a two block radius.  Satisfied that his father wasn’t there, he moved on.

The airport parking took a bit more time to search, but not much.  It was a small airport.

“So if he didn’t go after Sam, where is he?”

 

He sent a text, then left the airport in search of the closest saloon.

 

* * *

 

“That’s yer daddy, huh?  Well, I ain’t seen him, but you find him,  you be sure to send him my way.” The weathered barmaid looked Dean up and down, licking her lips.  “And you should leave me your phone number, just in case.”

Dean debated his options -- _Give her the number, and either fuck her or ditch the phone later?  Tell her to call the hotel, and risk having her come knocking on our door?_

In the end he made one up, breathing a sigh of relief and shaking off the memory of her hungry stare as soon as he stepped out the door.

 

* * *

 

The second stop wasn’t much better.

 

The bearded man that took the photo from Dean’s fingers was two inches taller and half-again as wide as the lithe hunter.  He scrutinized the man in the picture carefully, then turned that laser-like intensity onto Dean. “Well, I _do_ believe that he’s your father.  Eyes, nose, brow, lower lip: all the same.” He handed the image back. “But I haven’t seen him, and nobody gets in this joint without going past me.”

_I bet he hasn’t missed a fake i.d. in a long, long time._

The man continued to assess him.

Dean looked away, shifting his feet.  “Well...uh...thanks. I...I can stop back later.  Check again, you know: just in case.” He began backing towards the exit, tripping over his own words.

The bouncer smiled.  “Well, if it’s a _daddy_ you’re lookin’ for, you could just leave me your number.”

Dean turned, jostling the couple behind him, and shouldered his way through the door.

 

The bearded man’s laughter followed him out into the night.

 

* * *

 

The third place was busy, with a line of people threading down the sidewalk, all waiting to get in. 

_He wouldn’t go to this one.  Too crowded._

Almost against his will, Dean found himself directing the long, black car into the last open spot on the street, walking a block back to the saloon.  He approached the man checking identification at the door.

 

“Back-a-the-line,” the doorman directed, without even so much as glancing at the new-comer.

“I’m not here to drink.  I’m just looking for someone.”

“Yeah, aren’t we all?  Try _eHarmony_. Worked for my mother.”

“Look, I --”  Dean closed his eyes.  

 

_Inhale._

_Exhale.  Relax._

 

“If I’d wanted to get laid, I could’ve at either of the last two places I stopped at.”  

This time the bouncer looked up.

The first handful of people in line shuffled nervously.

Dean held the photo out.  “My father is missing.”

“I’m sorry about that, bud.  I really am. But the fire warden doesn’t care _why_ the bodies are in there; he only cares that there are too many-- “

“I don’t need to go inside.”  Dean’s jaw was tight with an anger that he knew would only shut this guy down.   _Relax your jaw.  Your shoulders. Breathe._  He moved the photograph into the man’s line of sight.  “Does this guy look familiar? Have you seen him tonight?”

Thick, blunt-nailed fingers with a lot of scar tissue around the knuckles closed carefully over a corner of the picture.  “Actually, yeah.” He raised his eyes, expression guarded. “I helped drag his ass out of here about…” he glanced at the watch on his wrist, “thirty minutes ago. He was asking about the Harrison family.  Managed to piss a few people off.” He handed the photo back.

 

_Harrisons.  He’s on the hunt._

_Alone._

 

“Thanks.”

Dean started to leave, and the man stopped him.  “He’d been drinking, too.”

Dean turned back, waiting.

The bouncer shrugged.  “Jack makes most people angry.  I stick to tequila, myself.” He smiled, a deliberate flash of one gold tooth nestled among white.  “Prefer to keep my teeth in m’ head.”

Dean nodded.  “Appreciate the heads up.”

 

_Behind the wheel and on a hunt._

_Drunk._

 

He picked up his pace, pulling out his keyring as he jogged to his car.

 

* * *

 

“I need to go with him.” Dean tried to step around the woman, but she was persistent, moving with him, hand resting near his shoulder as if they were waltzing.

“You can’t, sir.  Hospital policy. Now let’s get you in here --”  her hand slid to his elbow as she attempted to draw him away behind a curtain, and he jerked back.

“No!  He’s my father!  I need --”

“Sir.” Her voice was stern, and somehow she was back in front of him.  She had her palm on the center of his chest, and despite her diminutive size, she may as well have been the Rock of Gibraltar.   “I need to take care of your injuries --”

He flicked her a glance --

 

_Dad_

_So much blood_

_Pale_

 

“I’m not injured.”  The top of her head didn't even reach his chin, and looked over her, side-stepping, single-minded in his intention to follow the gurney that had drawn the lifeless form of his father through the doors at the end of the stark corridor.

“You’re covered in blood --”

“‘S not mine.”

“How about if we just get you cleaned up, then?  We have some clothes --”

“NO!”  He stepped back, glowering.  “Get your hands off of me!”

“Sir,” a male voice spoke from behind him, “How about if we just get this top shirt off --”

A heavy palm landed on his shoulder.

 

_Hands,_

_So many hands_

_“We gotta get these off of you”_

 

The sound Dean made was somewhere between a protest and a roar.

 

The male nurse hit the floor, sliding along the tile until his momentum was halted by a collision with the wall. He lay still, head turned, eyes closed.  A thick bruise purpled his jaw.

Dean was backed into a corner, hands just above waist height,  ready to block or strike or throw -- or any combination of those.  

 

“Don’t. Touch. Me.”

 

The inhuman growl cut through the din of the hospital waiting room, triggering a primal instinct of ‘predator’ in all present.

Some froze; others slid out of his line of sight.

All gave the tall, blood-covered man space, avoiding even the simple intrusion of meeting his eyes.

 

Dean flicked a glance at the crumpled figure against the wall -- _Jeff_ \-- instinctively searching out the rest of his assailants while his mind wrestled with the fallout of his flashback.

 

_Hospital_

_Brought Scott here_

_Where’s Ryan?_

 

Frightened faces

 

_Not a threat_

_Tried to take my shirt_

 

“Hey.”  A woman's voice reached out to him from the bank of elevators.

Dean’s gaze jerked to her.

Saw the door on the car behind her slide shut.

“I’m Erika.”

Dean felt his chest rise and fall

Rise and fall

 

_Too fast.  Slow down. Breathe._

 

His eyes jittered around the room.   _Where are they?_

 

“Do you have a name?”  Her voice was smooth, conversational, with no hint of aggression nor fear.

He raked his glare up and down her body, assessing the degree of threat.

She leaned her hips against the closed doors behind her, palms spread a little away from her body, facing him.  “You’re in a hospital right now. You know that, right?”

 

_Scott._

_Dad._

 

He nodded, a sharp, stiff movement.

“Did you come here with someone?”

 

_Inhale._

_Exhale.  Relax._

 

He couldn’t catch his breath.

The searchlight of his gaze swept the area once more.

“My dad.”

He didn’t recognize his own voice.

 

_Inhale._

_Exhale. Relax._

 

He noticed the ache in his jaw.  Forced his upper and lower molars to separate.

“Do you know where he is?”  Her voice was soothing, unintrusive.

His eyes flicked down the length of the corridor, skimmed around the room, then came back to her.

 

_Inhale._

_Exhale. Relax._

 

“Would you like me to find him for you?”

 He felt his head dip, the uncertain nod of a four-year-old lost in a department store.

 “I don’t really like shouting across the hall like this.  May I come closer?”

 

Without knowing why, he pressed his back into the wall.

 

“Okay.  It’s no big deal.”  She looked to her left, speaking to someone that Dean couldn’t see.  “How about if we empty this hall? Close the door on the waiting room.  Give him some peace and quiet.” She addressed Dean once more. “Would that be okay?  Get these people out of here? Close those double doors?”

 

Dean realized that his mouth was open, air panting in an uneven rhythm over the drying edge of his lip.

 

The man on the floor moaned.

Dean’s head jerked to him.  The facial features registered on the clearing peak of his consciousness.  _Not Jeff._

Nurse Gibraltar made a hesitant half-shuffle toward her downed co-worker.  “M-may I?”

Dean furrowed his brow.

Blinked.

“Yeah.”  He cleared his throat.  “Yeah. Help him.”

“Can they leave?”  Elevator Woman was talking to him again.  

He blinked.  “Yeah. Sure.”  He glanced around, and the feeling of being the busboy who dropped a tray of dishes in a packed restaurant came over him.  He looked at each person in the hall with him. “You can go. I won’t --” He waved his hands.

 

Realized that one felt heavy.

 

“So,” Elevator Woman said, her tone conversational, “would you like to put that gun away and tell me your name?”

  
  
  



	2. T2

* * *

  
Erika talked Dean into unloading his pistol, which included stripping the rounds from the magazine, but she didn’t try to take it away  from him.

It probably helped that every other word out of his mouth was an apology.

 

_What the fuck is wrong with me?_

 

He felt like crying, and it pissed him off.

“Your father is in surgery,” Erika had discovered for him, “but they say he has no life-threatening injuries.  They are going to bring him directly to a private room. Would you like to wait in there?”

Aside from two large and disgruntled-appearing security guards, the hallway was empty.

Dean knew that it shouldn’t be.

“Yeah.”  Tears bit at his eyes, and he ground his teeth.  “Thank you.”

 

* * *

  


“You sure they’re bringing him up  here?” Dean had not stopped pacing since they entered the room.

“Yes,” Erika replied, as calmly as if it were the first time he had asked.  “I made sure they would let us know if anything changed.”

Dean had run through all of his calming exercises, and nothing had worked.

 

_If Sam comes back he’ll be stuck here_

_Can’t text him_

_Not yet_

 

* * *

  
_Panic clung to the back of his throat like the aftertaste of  his most recent hangover._

_“Your research better  be solid, Sammy.”_

_He was muttering to himself, voice felt rather than heard, blending smoothly with the black car’s rumble._

_He didn’t slow to appreciate the historic ghost town. His focus was on the crumbling farmstead just beyond._

_His father’s pickup was a dark shadow against an outbuilding._

_His headlights swept across the courtyard._

 

_Stopped._

 

_In the spotlight_

_A black, wolf-like creature_

_Slope shouldered and huge._

_Glittering eyes rose_

_Blood dripped from its fangs_

 

_The man that the beast straddled was not moving._

 

_“Dad!”_

 

_Dean was out of the car_

_No thought to his actions_

_No weapon in his hands_

_Charged_

 

_And the beast was gone._

 

_“Dad!”_

_Voice choked with fear_

_Dropped to his knees_

_Blood_

_So much blood_

_Neck_

_Chest_

_Matted in his hair_

_But his pulse was steady_

 

_No need for Dean to hide his sobs_

_No one to see_

_He struggled to pull his father over his shoulders_

_Wet heat soaking him instantly_

 

_So much blood_

 

_Unconscious man wrapped around his neck like a ghoulish stole_

_Dean’s shout as he stood_

_A combination of exertion and frustration_

_Back wet with blood_

_Face wet with tears_

 

_“I got you, Dad.  I got you.”_

 

_Turned to the car._

_Man standing there, looking concerned._

_“Is he okay? What happened?”_

 

_And Dean knew._

 

_“Not sure.  Gotta get him to a hospital.”_

 

_“Let me help,” and the man stepped forward, hand out._

 

_“Don’t touch him!”  A power in his voice that Dean barely recognized._

 

_The man stopped, backed up a step_

_But Dean saw something that looked an awful lot like amusement flicker in those dark eyes._

 

_“Get the back door,” he commanded_

_And the stranger obeyed, stepping back to draw it open, releasing the handle to curl his fingers around the window frame_

 

_Dean lowered his father as carefully as he could_

_Drawing his knife as he straightened_

_Alien breath on his neck_

_Scalding and eager_

_Too eager_

 

_Driving up through his knees_

_The rotation of his body amplifying the power of the blow_

_Knife catching on a rib_

_Impaling the monster as it lunged for him_

_Shunka Warak’in returning to its human form as it dropped to the mournful earth_

_Lifeless._

 

_“I should text Sammy,”_

_But his father moaned_

_The night was dark_

_The road unfamiliar_

_And the hospital was a more pressing need._

 

* * *

 

“Dean?”  Her voice intruded on his reverie.

He licked blood from his lip, feeling the imprint of his own teeth.  “Yeah?”

“Are you military?”

He turned away.  “Can’t talk about it.”

“Alright.  How about your father?”

“Was a marine.  Retired.”

“I don’t mean to offend you, but...have you been diagnosed?”

He glared at the woman, noticing the copper color of her hair for the first time.  “What?”

“Post traumatic stress disorder.  What happened in the lobby…” she shrugged.  “I’m a psychologist. I specialize in trauma, hence my position on the ER staff.  What happened down there looked an awful lot like PTSD.”

He was abruptly still, regarding her silently as the minutes ticked past.

 

“It’s not ‘post’ if you’re still living it,” he finally muttered, eyes sliding off of hers.  He resumed his pacing.

 

* * *

  
He startled when the door opened, backing away, expression both alarmed and fierce.

Erika positioned herself in such a way that she could place her body between the tense hunter and the hospital staff.  “They’re going to transfer your father to the bed now.”

The attendants' motions were fluid, efficient, leaving the unconscious man undisturbed.  They began to secure him with wrist restraints, and Dean stepped forward.

Erika intercepted him.  “Restraints?”

“He’s been combative,” a male nurse replied.

“Like father, like son,” she murmured, then shot a look at Dean.

 

The gore-encrusted man shifted back, then forward again, fists clenched at his sides, breath coming fast.  

 

“Could you leave them off for now?”  She flicked her eyes at Dean. The nurse's followed, assessing the tall young man quickly before returning to the psychologist for affirmation.   _Military_.  She mouth the word, and the savvy RN nodded.  

“Whatever you say, doc.”  He checked his patient’s vital signs, addressing the other man as he jotted notes in a chart.  “He’s gonna be okay. Took a lot of stitches and a few pints of blood, but his biggest problem right now is the amount of alcohol in his system.”  He flipped the chart closed, raising his eyes to the other man’s for the first time. “Do you have any questions?”

Dean licked his lips.  His gaze flitted around the room, skimming over the nurse’s face without settling.  “N-not now.” He took a step forward, then eased back once more, hands twisting together as he assessed the scrub-clad man from the corner of his eye.  

“Well, I’m Kyle, and I’ll be your father’s shift nurse tonight.  Use the call light if you need me, and if you have questions, I’m your man.”

Dean nodded.  “Thanks, Kyle.”

 

He settled beside the bed.

 

Erika took up a position across the room, repositioning her recliner to place herself between the hospital bed and the door.  With Dean’s permission, she drew the curtain, affording the two men some privacy.

Relaxing into the passable comfort of the hospital-grade chair, she readied herself for a sleepless night.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's so short! Got a lot going on right now, and I don't want to rush this. More to come!


	3. T3

* * *

  
  


The doctor entered alone.  She stood behind and to the right of Erika’s recliner, fingertips of her left hand resting on it.  “Your father sustained quite a few lacerations -- cuts -- to his neck, arms, and torso. Some of the injuries are punctures, and appear to be bite wounds.  The one to his left forearm is severe: there are two bones there, and both of his were broken in two places.” 

Dean understood that she had paused to see if he was keeping up.  “Lacerations, punctures, complex fractures of the left radius and ulna.” 

She raised her eyebrows.  Dean ignored her surprise.  “ What else?”

“One of the lacerations on his side was deep enough to penetrate the chest cavity.  He had a pneumothorax, which has resolved, but we did place a chest tube.”

“Because?” Dean prompted.

“Did you see what did this to him?” the physician countered.

“Looked like a wolf.  Only….” he spread his palms, looking away.

“Bigger?  Slope-shouldered?  Longer muzzle?”

Dean feigned surprise.  “Yeah! How’d --”

“Two men from the Forest Department killed one last week.  It had been slaughtering livestock, but then it killed a child.  The child’s parents have gone missing and are presumed dead -- went to hunt for the thing, no doubt.”  She looked over at her patient. “Your father is lucky to be alive.” She shrugged. “Returning to your question: we assume that the animal’s claws introduced infection, and placed a drain tube as a precaution.  We’re also administering intravenous antibiotics. Assuming no complications arise, we should be able to discharge your father in a few days.”

“Ms. --” he gestured at the woman in the recliner -- “Erika said something about his blood alcohol level.”

“Oh, yes: quite elevated.  He is suffering from alcohol poisoning. Due to the severity of his external injuries, we did perform a CT scan on your father prior to admitting  him to surgery. The appearance of his liver is consistent with cirrhosis. Is your father being treated for alcoholism?”

Dean wasn’t sure how to respond.  A ‘yes’ might prompt the doctor to ask where and by whom.  On the other hand, Dean wasn’t sure how the laws worked in Montana, and was afraid that a ‘no’ would find his father being admitted into an involuntary rehab program.  “Sort of. We travel a lot, so he can only go to meetings and stuff when we’re in the same town for more than a couple days.”

“I see.  And what is it that you do?”

His eyes flicked to Erika’s, then away.  “I’m not at liberty to discuss that.”

“You’re not...Oh.  I see.” For a moment, she seemed at a loss. “Well…” She looked around the room, as if seeking the answer to an unspoken question.  “If you need anything, just ring the nurse, and someone will come find me.”

She took a step back in preparation for leaving, and Erika stopped her.  “Wait! I have a request: could you bring our friend here a change of clothes?”

Dean opened his mouth to protest, then closed it.  The blood that had soaked through was drying on his skin, making him itch.  “Forty chest, thirty-two waist,” he supplied helpfully.

The doctor nodded.  “I’ll have something sent up.”

The door closed silently behind her.

 

It took some work to get Dean to entrust his father to Erika’s care long enough to shower, but the combination of her gentle needling and the discomfort -- not to mention growing odor -- of his clothing eventually wore him down.

“I'm leaving the door cracked.” 

“Of course you are,” she agreed, and Dean eyed her carefully.  Her smile was demure. “I won't peek. Promise.” 

 

_ Copper hair _

_ Green eyes _

_ Beautiful skin _

 

_ Let her peek. _

 

He snorted as he turned away.

 

* * *

 

Dean  had just started rinsing the nearly latherless hospital shampoo from his hair when the commotion began.  

The clatter of something hitting the floor had him reaching for a towel, and by the time he heard Erika’s stern: “Stand down, Corporal!”, Dean was already out the door.  

“I’m not -- Sam!   _ Sam _ !”  The panicked tone wasn’t one Dean heard from his father very often.

The therapist was all but lying on top of the Winchester patriarch, chest-to-chest, with her hands curling around his forearms, pinning him.

Barely.

“Dad!  Stand down!  It’s a hospital!”  

“No!   _ Sam _ !  I have to -- “

“Move.”  Dean came in on Erika’s left side, using his hip to push her away as his hands replaced hers.

John’s eyes were bloodshot, hazy,  and frantic.

“Dad!”  Dean shook the man.  “Calm down, or they’ll drug you again!”

The older man stilled, though tension continued to hum through him like a high-capacity power line.

“Dean?  Where’s Sam?  Did I...did I hurt him?”

“No, Dad.  You didn’t hurt him.  He’s at Stanford, remember?  Showin’ the world that we aren’t all just a bunch of pretty faces.”

“But I…”  He looked around, brow furrowed, struggling up through an alcohol-induced daze.  “Did you shoot me?”

“No, Dad, I did not shoot you, and this nice woman here promises to make certain that I don’t.”  He kept his tone light, hoping the words “nice woman here” would register with his father despite the man’s advanced state of inebriation.  

Tears thickened the older man’s lashes.  “Did I hurt you, Dean? Did I?”

“No, Dad.”  Dean’s voice was gentle.  “You didn’t hurt me.”

“Did I try?  Did you stop me?”

Dean was acutely aware of the therapist.  He could almost feel the heat of her concentration as she bore witness to the exchange between the two men.  He leaned in, lips nearly touching his father’s ear as he whispered, “You stopped on your own. Okay? You didn’t hurt me, because you stopped yourself, and you left.  Now go back to sleep, Dad. There’s a shrink here, and she is way too interested in all of the shit you’ve been saying.” He straightened, tucking his father’s bare arms beneath the thin hospital blanket, pulling the cloth snug beneath the man’s chin.  “Just sleep, okay?” He reiterated, this time for Erika’s ears. “I’ll be right here, Dad. You’re safe. Go to sleep.”

Dean slid his fingers through the grey at his father’s temple, setting a rhythm that matched his respirations, knowing that his father would subconsciously mimic the pace, slowing and deepening his breaths.

He hummed “Hey, Jude” until all of the tension left his father’s face, and the man’s snores drowned out the melody.

“You should be able to finish your shower.”  Erika had remained at the foot of the bed, deliberately staying within Dean’s field of vision.  

He shook his head.  “I was pretty much done.”

Neither of them moved.

Gooseflesh stood out on Dean’s arms and torso.  His bare feet on the hospital’s vinyl tile were almost cold enough to ache.  

 

_ What the hell was he thinking, going after that thing alone -- and drunk? _

_ Doesn’t he trust me to have his back? _

 

An image of himself locking his father in place with the barrel of a loaded gun flashed through Dean’s mind.  

> _ “You knew, Dean!  You knew the whole time, and you didn’t tell me!” _

_ He doesn’t.   _

_ He doesn’t trust me. _

 

He shivered, and not from the cold.

 

“Do you want to get dressed?” The keenly observant psychologist was still on duty.

Dean curled his fingers around the solid metal of the bed’s railing, squeezing his eyes closed tightly.

 

_ He doesn’t trust me. _

He didn’t want to cry in front of this woman.  Didn’t want to cry at all. The tears had other ideas, and he dropped his chin to his chest.

_ Inhale. _

_ Exhale.  Relax. _

He shifted back onto his heels, feeling them flatten as the smooth tile pushed back.   _ Grounded.  You’re fine.  Been through worse. _

But he couldn’t think of when.

 

_ He doesn’t trust me. _

_ He will.  Give it time.  It’s just because he left before he finished.  Let him use his belt -- hell, even the whip --  and he’ll see that it’s okay, that he can, that’ll you’ll always have his back -- _

_ But I won’t.  Comes down to him or Sam, I’m saving Sam, every time.  Especially when it’s Dad that Sam needs saving from. _

_ It’s all different now.   _

_ Changed. _

 

Loss burned hot trails down the taut planes of Dean’s cheeks.

 

* * *

  
  


Returning from the bathroom, Erika placed the small stack of borrowed clothing on the foot of John’s bed.  “You look cold. And exhausted.” Dean did not acknowledge her, and she took advantage of his self-absorption to study him.  “The bruises look more recent than the lacerations. And by ‘recent’, I mean ‘happened within the last twenty-four hours’. You need sleep in order to heal.  I’ll have them bring a cot up.”

Dean waited until she left the room before retrieving the clothes she had requested for him.  He dressed slowly, muscles stiff with cold and pain and exhaustion. He fought it all to pull the abandoned recliner against the bedrail.  He lowered himself into it, groaning along with the compressing springs. He raised the footrest and deepened the angle of the chair back.  _  Not gonna sleep.  Just need to close my eyes. _

He threaded long fingers through the bars on his father’s bed, allowing them to rest against the older man’s blanket-draped forearm.

 

Erika returned to find the two men snoring in concert.

She sighed.  “Guess I get the cot, then.”  She glanced at the clock on the wall.  “Four hours ‘til dawn.” She yawned, jaw cracking.  “Fuck ‘beauty sleep’. Push comes to shove, there’s always botox.”

The mother in her wanted to drape a blanket over the man who had sequestered her recliner.  The trained therapist, however, knew better. She carefully placed a folded blanket where the pile of clothes had been, then stepped out into the hall to wait for her bed to arrive.

 

* * *

  
  


Erika turned away from the steady glow of the monitors to find Dean staring at her.  

“What are you doing?”  His voice was sleep-rough and quiet, but the menace in it was clear.  

“Just recording some readings.  I asked that the night nurse stay away unless we call, so I have to take over his duties.”  She closed the metal folder and returned it to the rack on the foot of the bed. “I was an RN before I went back to school for my psych degrees.”

Dean grunted.  “So: why all this special treatment?”

She brought a moulded plastic chair around, turning it backwards and straddling it. Casual.  Non-threatening. “You pulled a gun out in a public place.”

Dean shifted, looking down at his hands.  “Yeah...sorry about that.”

She shrugged.  “I’m not here to bust your chops.  PTSD in combat veterans is my specialty.  I understand, so I talked them out of hauling you out in handcuffs.”

Dean winced.

“Something told me that having uniformed officers attempt to restrain you and remove you from your father would have ended badly.”

He bit his lip, studying his cuticles.

“They released you into my care.  I have to stay with you until one of three things happens: I deem you fit to re-enter society; you are placed in protective custody; your unit is deployed again.  And re-joining your unit will be contingent upon passing a psych evaluation conducted by whatever branch you serve under.”

_ Shit _ .

“You have a few things in your favor, which is the only reason that this arrangement was allowed.  For one, you didn’t point the thing at anyone or actually threaten to open fire. The safety was on, as well.  More importantly, you didn’t seem to realize you were holding a gun, and were -- or appeared to be -- sincerely apologetic after the fact.  The last two points allowed me to convince the police officers and hospital administration that you had experienced a psychotic break -- a flashback -- and are not a threat as long as we prevent a recurrence.”

“I’m not psychotic.”

She smiled.  “I know. The term just means that for a short period of time, you were living in a reality that the rest of us couldn’t see.”  

He picked up a fold in the blanket, rolling it between his finger and thumb.

“Care to tell me what you were seeing?” Her voice was feather-soft.

Dean felt his molars slam together.

 

_ Inhale. _

_ Exhale. Relax. _

_ Soften your jaw.  Your shoulders. _

 

It wasn’t working.

“Talking about it is tough, I know, but it can desensitize you to it.  Take away the power the memories have over you.”

 

_ Didn’t work so well with Caroline. _

 

Silently waiting was not an effective interrogation technique when applied to Dean Winchester.

They listened to the comforting rhythm of John’s relaxed breathing.

“Does it have anything to do with the damage to your body?  Almost healed lacerations and fresh bruises. You’ve been through something recently, and I’m guessing it isn’t something you’d care to go through again.”

Dean strummed the ridges of healing claw marks along his ribs, a habit he was unaware of developing.  _  Would I get clawed again to take out a monster?  _  He thought about the bruises she’d seen.   _ Would I take another beating to protect my brother?   _ He flexed his shoulders, feeling the pull of scar tissue across the lacerations left by his father’s whip.   _ Would I go through that again to earn Dad’s forgiveness? _

“You’re wrong, Doc.  Same situations, same choices: I would do it all over again.”

“Self-sacrifice, or self-preservation?”

He raised his eyes slowly.  “Both.”

He settled back into the chair, snugging the blanket up under his chin, and turned his face away from her.

She let him sleep.

 

* * *

  
  


The next time she checked on John, the man in the chair kept his eyes closed.  

“I know you’re awake,” she chided him.  “Your kind doesn’t sleep through anything.  Not unless they’re drugged or have a massive head injury.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.  “I have my own kind?”

“Yes, you do.”  She straddled her chair once more.  “And I told you the conditions for leaving this hospital.  Best case scenario is for you to talk to me.”

“How about if I go twenty-four hours without pulling a gun on anyone?  Will that do?”

“No.”

“Forty-eight?”  He still hadn’t opened his eyes.

Erika didn’t respond, but Dean could feel her irritation.

He sighed.  Cracked one eye open.  _  Yep: she’s lookin’ at me, and she’s pissed. _

 

_ Fuck. _

 

Rolling his eyes internally, he folded the footrest into the chair and stood, smiling a little when she flinched back.  He shucked himself out of the borrowed hoodie. Pulled the t-shirt off over his head. Took one long step closer, invading her personal space, bared torso level with her wide eyes.  

“These,” he began, running his four fingers down the parallel marks crossing his torso, “were made by the same thing that got my old man.  It was slaughtering livestock before it moved onto people. It’s dead now.” He tipped his head, indicating the man lying behind him. “Dad went after its mate.  That one’s dead now, too.”

He righted his shirt, preparing to redress himself.

“Wait!”  She reached out as if to touch his forearm, but stopped herself.  “What about the ones on your back?”

He brought a  hand up, finger and thumb spread, resting near the corners of his mouth before sliding down, meeting as his chin, then falling away.  “I let those happen,” he finally admitted. “Made some choices. I’d make the same ones again.”

“May I?”  She held a penlight in one hand.

He studied her for a long moment, knowing this was a game of chess, trying to see what moves she was planning to execute and how he would counter them.

He turned.

 

_ Will she know what she’s looking at? _

_ Doesn’t matter: nothing there will tell her who  did it. _

 

“May I...is it alright if I touch you?”

He shivered, and wondered why.

A dozen comments came to mind, some snarky, some suggestive.  What he said was, “Sure.”

Her touch was light, a barely-there sensation of something smooth gliding over a sunburn.  Dean hadn’t looked at the damage himself, and he focused on her fingers, allowing them to paint a picture for him.  

A random hashmark of scars, like a handful of dry spaghetti noodles dropped on a countertop by a hasty chef.  Nothing at all like claw marks, or even the result of unfortunate contact with something mechanical. These could only be deliberate and manmade.

“Who did this to you?”

There was no point in denying it.    “Someone I trusted not to take it too far.  Someone that I owed something to.”

Her fingertips dropped down, tracing the perimeter of a geometric contusion painting his side and lower back.  

Gooseflesh jumped out on his skin.

“And this?”

He could feel the heat of her breath.

“Protecting someone.”  He sounded like he needed to clear his throat.

She went back to the lacerations, brushing along the stitches.  “What kind of suture material is this? I don’t recognize it.” 

He hesitated.  “The homemade kind.”

Her fingers bent, and the nails scraped over the unmarred skin between scars.  “Do they itch?”

An electric tingle shuddered through him, pooling insistently in his groin.

He turned slowly.

She didn’t break contact.

When he stopped, the pads of her fingers came to rest just above his right nipple.  

As he watched, the tip of her tongue darted out, capturing her lower lip and drawing it back between her teeth.  His cock jumped strongly in the loose sweats that he wore.

His borrowed clothes  had not included under garments. 

The pad of her thumb flicked over the hardened nub of his nipple, and he almost groaned.  

Her other hand rose until her fingertips rested lightly on the skin of his abdomen, teasing along his waistband.

Dean was so hard he ached.   “Is this part of my therapy?” He didn’t recognize his  own voice.

“Maybe.”  Her tongue reached out, tracing the faint line of downy hair that ran from his waistband to his navel.

He groaned, fingers twitching with the desire to bury themselves in the thick copper of her tresses and pull her mouth to him.  “You’re killin’ me, here.”

She pressed her lips to  him and hummed. The vibration forced a contraction through him, and precum wet the tip of his cock.  “Please…”

“Tell me something first.”  She tugged at the cotton of his pants, sliding them down incrementally, her mouth following.

“This is so unfair.”

He felt her lips curve into a smile.  “Do you want me to stop?”

_ No. _

_ Yes. _

“No.”

His pants slid lower.

His cock begged him to spill his guts to the red-headed siren with her unconventional warfare.

“What do you want to know?”  Dean’s eyes were closed, burning need blinding him.

“What were you reliving downstairs?”

> _ Hands, so many  hands _

Cold rushed down on him, starting at his head and draining all the way to his feet, drowning the flame Erika had so skillfully crafted.

 

Dean stepped back.

 

Pulled on his shirt.

 

Retrieved the hoodie.

 

“Wake me when it’s time for morning rounds.”  He dropped into the recliner, popped the footrest up, and shut her out.

  
  
  
  
  



	4. T4

* * *

 

“How many life or death situations have you been in, Dean?”

 

_Jesus.  She is freakin’ relentless._

 

His eyes shifted to his father’s.  John shrugged, a silent message to tell the therapist whatever he wanted.

_Fuckin’ group therapy._

_Son of a bitch._

“I dunno.  Couple dozen, I guess.”

She had noted the silent exchange between the two men.  “Do you agree with that estimate, John?”

The older man smiled, showing teeth as well as dimples.  “Yup.”

Erika sighed.  “You do both remember that I’m trying to keep Dean from being incarcerated, don’t you?  A little help would be nice.”

Dean dropped his eyes, and John suddenly looked tired.  “Point taken. It’s an old habit.”

“What is?  Lying?”

The lines in John’s face deepened.  “No. Protecting one another.”

She tipped her head in acknowledgement.  “I’ll keep that in mind, but please know that I am absolutely on your side.  I want to help both of you be able to move through society without ending up in jail.”  She looked from one man to the other. “So: about two dozen times. Does that answer still stand?”

John’s crisp “Yes” overlapped with his son’s respectful, “Yes, ma’am.”

“And you, John?”

Dean could tell by his father’s expression that the man was shutting down.

“ _Quid pro quo_ ,” Erika reminded him.  Apparently the trained psychologist had recognized the signs as well. “That’s the deal you made with your son, remember?  You’d talk if he would.”

John inhaled through his nose, loud and dramatic.  “Yeah. Alright.” He closed his eyes. They moved beneath the lids, and Dean wondered what memories his father was replaying, which ones he thought counted.  

John opened his eyes.  “I don’t have a count. More than two dozen.”

“And your nightmares: are they about the same one or two experiences?  Or do they vary?”

 _I dream about fire and not being able to save Sam and_ \-- “Drowning,” Dean heard himself say.  “And...tornadoes.”

He caught his father’s surprised expression.  

“Interesting.  Have you come close to drowning?”

Dean shook his head.

“Been in a tornado?”

Another silent negation.  

“Can you tell me about one of them?”

“Um...the tornadoes: I’m usually in a building, like an apartment complex, and I’m trying to get everyone to safety.  Sometimes I make it. Other times...I don’t.”

“So: trying to save others against overwhelming forces.”  She turned to the older man. “John?”

He grunted.  “Black smoke.  Going room to room, looking for people I can’t find.”

“And you are looking for them, why?”

“To get ‘em away from the smoke.  To save them.”

“Very similar to your son’s dreams, then.”

John smiled, a pointedly humorless affectation, but did not offer any further information.

“So you have both felt responsible for saving people in situations where the odds were stacked against you.  That seems like a valid reason to develop PTSD.”

“Yeah, well: not everyone who goes through that kind of shit ends up needing therapy.  I made it back from ‘Nam without it.”

Erika raised an eyebrow.  “No recurrent nightmares? Flashbacks? Inexplicable, inappropriate, or exaggerated emotions? Hypervigilance?”

“What you call ‘hypervigilance’ I call ‘situational awareness,’ and it’s saved my ass more than once.”

She nodded.  “I’ll concede that point, but only because the two of you are still active.  What about the rest?” John looked away, setting his jaw, his silence offering an answer of its own.  She shifted her focus.  “Dean? We’ve agreed that you experienced some sort of flashback or body memory in the lobby.  Has anything similar happened before?”

   

>   _Body hard against him_
> 
> _his forearm and bicep compressing carotid arteries_
> 
> _Knife pressed to flesh_
> 
> _Smell of ammonia and beer_
> 
> _Roomful of wide-eyed faces, none of them familiar._
> 
> _What the hell is going on?_
> 
> _“Sam?”_

 

“Yeah.”  Dean could feel his father’s interest sharpen.  “Sam and I were at bar, playin’ pool. This bartender or cocktail waitress or whatever that I’d been --” he almost said ‘friendly with’, but his father’s voice -- _you think a blow job is worth more than your  brother’s life?_ \-- blared at him from the depths of his memory, and he caught himself.  “Flirting with...she came up behind me, put her hand on my ass. Startled me, you know?”  He was picking at a callus on his palm, and didn’t look up.

“That would startle anyone, I would think,” Erika encouraged.

“Yeah...well...next thing I know I’ve got her in a headlock with a knife against her ribs.  Whole bar fulla people lookin’ at me like I’ve got a bomb strapped to my chest.”

“When was that?” John interjected.

“Just before Sam and I left to come up here.”  

“Jesus, Dean!  Is that why you -- Why didn’t you tell me?”

 _When would I have done that?_  “Would it have mattered?”

“Of course it would have!”

Dean fought to keep his irritation from projecting as insubordination.  “You’ve said it a hundred times: rules are rules. Doesn’t matter why I broke ‘em; only matters that I did.”

John shook his head.  “I don’t understand you.  That time Sam left, you didn’t tell me about --” he waved his hand through the air.  

Dean hunched his shoulders. _Don’t say it, Dad.  Please, don’t say it._

“And this time you not only let me…” his voice trailed off, and he brushed the back of his wrist over both eyes, “but you didn’t think to tell me that this thing had happened.”

Dean stood up, agitated. Suffocating.  “Because it didn’t matter. Each time: it didn’t matter.”  He shoved his chair back, creating room to pace. “Sam matters.  The job matters. Getting it _right_ matters.” _Knowing you trust me_ matters _._

His desire to escape the conversation had carried him across the room. He pressed his forehead into the wall. _It’s all falling apart.  I don’t know what’s happening. What I’m supposed to do. Who I’m supposed to be._

His father’s voice, though quiet, sliced as cleanly as a surgeon’s blade through the robust stillness.  “What do you want from me, Dean?”

 

_He’s as lost as I am._

 

Dean slid down the wall, curling in on himself. Drowning.

 

* * *

  
  
A nurse chose that uniquely inopportune moment to knock on the door.  

Erika strode to it with an irritated huff.  “Yes?”

“Dr. Freeman wanted me to let you know that she’s one room over.”

“Alright.  Thank you.”  The therapist turned back to her two men.  “Morning rounds. They’ll bring breakfast after that.”  The elder had his face to the window.  The pink and yellow of sunrise reflected off of the dampness coating his upper cheek.  The younger leaned into a wall, arms around his shins, face pressed into his thighs.

Erika crossed to Dean, squatting down before she was in touching distance.  “Would you like to get on the cot?” It was at his back, an attainable refuge.

Without looking at her, Dean uncoiled himself, turning as he did, somehow transferring to the narrow mattress with the fluidity of a cobra.  Once there he lay on his side, spine hard against the wall. He pulled the thin woven blanket up over his head, drawing his knees to his chest as he did so.  

“Just rest, okay?”  Erika coaxed. “I’ll keep an eye on your father.”

 

Dean didn’t respond.

 

She pulled the recliner back, positioning it between the cot and the door, and stood behind it, a dual barrier protecting her patient from an imminent disturbance.

Or them from him.

 

* * *

 

By the time the room cleared again, the young man was snoring.

Erika relocated to the chair beside John’s bed.  “Either he is not military or you are not his father.  Which is it?”

John studied her,  his expression guarded.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  

“He acts like you’re his commanding officer, and the military does not allow that degree of nepotism.”

John sighed, allowing his exhaustion to manifest.  “We’re privately trained but government employed. It’s a family business.”

“Doing what?”

His gaze was level.  Unblinking. “Saving people from threats that they don’t even know exist.”  

“Including mutated and possibly rabid wolves in an obscure, sparsely populated Montana town?”  Scepticism leant acid to her words.

“Especially that.”

 

She regarded him for a time, deciding whether or not to believe him.

 

He held her gaze.

 

She leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest as she shook her head.  “I have no choice but to believe you.”

He didn’t respond.

“So: what were you two talking about?”

 

He broke contact.  

 

She waited.

 

He turned his head away.

“Would you like me to make a guess?  It isn’t my preference -- I could end up conveniently feeding you a cover story -- but based on what I’ve gleaned so far, I bet it’ll be pretty close to the truth.  You want me to try?”

John didn’t answer.

“The lacerations on his abdomen are a few days older than the ones on his back, and they look exactly like yours.  I’m guessing that what he told me was true: he went after the mate of the thing that got you. Most likely with his brother.  The supposed forest rangers, or whatever. It marked him, but they killed it, which should have been a good thing.  Only something about that pissed you off.  And the brother, Sam: he left.” She paused to see if the man she addressed was ready to respond.

He held his silence.

“The wounds on his back?  I’d be willing to bet those were made by a bullwhip or a thin chain.  Something like that.  And from the conversation I overheard, I’d also bet my license that you did it to him as punishment for something, and  he could have stopped you, but didn’t. Am I close?”

The man in the bed did not respond.

“I’m equally certain that this isn’t the first time you’ve ‘corrected’ Dean.  And the corrections have been escalating. When do you plan on stopping? When you’ve killed him?”

 

“I try,” came the whispered response. “Was seeing a therapist….getting better…”

 

“And?”

His eyes were closed.

Tears coated his lashes.

“She died.”

Erika went still.  “Did you kill her?”

“Not...not directly.” He waved a hand in a rolling motion.  “My work...I was staying at her place, like inpatient care, and something I...It was…”

“You were the target?  She got caught in the cross-fire?”

“Yeah.”

“Is that what his flashback was about?”

 

John’s negation came slowly, reluctantly.

 

“What, then?  Do you know?”

He faced her, and  his expression held such grief that she felt herself blinking away tears before he even spoke.  

“A few months ago…” his voice caught, and he wiped an arm across his face.  “He went to a bar, looking to hustle some pool. Someone spiked his drink.” He closed his eyes.  Drew in a breath. “They took him to a place...six guys.”

 

She waited, knowing what the man was implying, but professionally bound to require confirmation, not rely on her assumptions.

 

They poised there, suspended on a shared horror and the desire to deny the atrocity.  Dean’s soft snores -- innocent, peaceful, and treacherously ordinary -- begged them to pretend with him, to create their own reality where that unimaginable event had never occured.

Erika pictured the young man as she’d first seen him: tall, broad-shouldered, exuding confidence and lethality.

 

“They raped him.”  Her words dropped like stones into still water, lost to impenetrable blackness while their ripples echoed infinitely.

 

John’s face contorted, a complex amalgam of horror and loss and shame, and Erika wrapped her arms around her chest, unable to stop the tears from flowing from either of them, knowing that she absolutely had to save the broken young man on the cot behind her, yet having no idea how.

 


	5. T5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For information on Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR) therapy:  http://www.emdr.com/what-is-emdr/  and here:  https://emdria.site-ym.com/?120
> 
> For information on “brief” therapies:  https://www.mdedge.com/psychiatry/article/60392/counseling-trauma-victims-4-brief-therapies-meet-test

 

* * *

 

“You said he was drugged.”  Erika willed herself back under control.  “How much was he aware of? Do you know?”

“He hasn’t said a whole lot, but he…”  John sorted through memories, trying to recall what Dean  had revealed versus the knowledge he had gained during his interrogation of his son’s assailants.  “He played pool with them. Kind of...befriended, I guess...a guy named Jeff. They slipped something into his drink.”  

> _ “Don’t.  Please, Jeff, please.  Don’t.” _

“He had a flashback once.”

> _ Knowing what his son was capable of, John straddled him, pinning Dean’s hips with his own before curling his fingers around the dazed man’s wrists, leaning on them to keep them in place. _
> 
> _ “Stand down, Dean!” _
> 
> _ Dean’s eyes opened wide, a thin whine squeezing through is lips, and his bucking and writhing became so frantic that John could not hold on. _
> 
> _ “Dean!” _
> 
> _ But his boy had rolled away, scrambling in the dirt, not even taking the time to get to his feet as he pushed himself with panicked instinct away from John, stopping only when his back contacted a thick wooden chair forcefully. _
> 
> _ He winced at that, ducking his head and throwing his arms up, clearly expecting a blow that never came. _

 “We were wrestling.  You know: training. And he...he thought I was Jeff.  Begged me--” John broke off, turning away. Erika watched him struggle through two deep inhalations.  John cleared his throat. “At some point Jeff also injected more drugs into him. Dean told me about it when he was coming down off the flashback.”

Erika shook her head.  “No wonder he dreams about drowning.”

John faced her again, eyes questioning.

“Sorry.  I took some mental leaps there.  His job is to protect people from threats that they don’t know exist.  You’re both trained in hand-to-combat. I mean, I assume so, since you mentioned wrestling as part of training as if that is commonplace for the  two of you. I would assume that you have both either learned or been taught to read both people and situations. So here we have a tall, fit male, trained for combat who relies on his judgement to keep him -- and others -- alive in dangerous situations...and he ended up in just such a situation, unable to prevent a horror that he obviously was aware of as it was  happening, begging someone that he had misjudged  _ not  _ to assault him.  I can’t even begin to imagine how many ways that damaged him.”

John turned away again, tears wetting his pillow.

“How many times has he tried to kill himself since then?”

A muscle in the father’s jaw jerked in reaction.

Erika nodded as if  he had spoken. “You said that he rarely talks about it. Has he discussed other life-altering events with you?  Discussed strong emotions with you?”

John shook his head, the guilt-laden motion all but imperceptible.  

“Does he confide in anyone?  Sibling, best friend, lover?”

“His brother, maybe.  Sometimes.”

“Sam?”

John nodded, still avoiding her eyes.

“But he left, correct?”

“Yeah.  Got a full ride to Stanford.”

Erika tipped her head back, blowing a breath out to the ceiling.  The enormity of her task was beginning to feel overwhelming. “Fantastic timing."  She closed her eyes briefly, reprimanding herself for the sarcasm.  "Does Sam know about this? Does he know that his brother was raped?”

This motion of negation was stronger.  “No. Dean looks out for Sam. Protects him. And Dean is Sam’s hero.  I think it would kill both of them if Sam found out.”

Erika looked over at the young man curled in on himself on the cot.  “We’ve got our work cut out for us, Hero. I hope we're up to it.”   She patted John’s blanket-warmed foot as she headed for the door.  “I need to make a few phone calls. With any luck, I’ll be back before he wakes up.”

John palmed his face dry, leaving not the faintest suggestion of hope behind to mar the perfect despair limned in his features.

 

* * *

  
Dean woke all in one piece, body dropping into tense awareness at the same time that his eyes snapped open.

His father had raised the head of his bed, brows furrowed in concentration as he absorbed whatever Erika was pointing out on her laptop’s screen.

 

_ Unless he let her in on what we really do and they’re researching a hunt, all of that seriousness over there has got to be about  me. _

The thought made him queasy.

_ Wish they’d leave me alone.  I’ll get it under control. Just need people to quit bringing the shit up over and over again.  I need to forget about it. Put it the fuck behind me and move on. _

 

As was his habit, Dean conducted a mental inspection of his physical being before rising.  Old fractures, some healed, some less so, ached dully. The claw marks on his abdomen were a distracting itch.  

 

He shut out the sensations coming from his back.

 

_ Good enough.  Time to break up the little ‘save Dean’ party they’ve got going on over there. _

He kicked out from beneath the blanket, allowing the swing of feet to floor to counterweight his torso into a seated position with minimal pull on knitting rib fractures.  

John noticed immediately.

Dean had known that he would.

“Hey, Tiger.  That’s the most I’ve seen you sleep in quite a while.  How you feeling?”

Dean rolled his shoulders, internalizing a wince.  “You’re the one with the IV. How are  _ you  _ feeling?”

John grinned, all white teeth and deep dimples.  He held up the catheterized vein. “Best hangover cure out there, Dean-o.”

Dean couldn’t help but chuckle.  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

He crossed to his father’s bed, surprised when they didn’t try to hide what they were looking at from him.  “What are you two doing? Watching porn together?”

“Dean,” John warned, but Erika laughed.

“I’m passionate about my profession, but not  _ that  _ passionate!”

She winked, and Dean colored, chagrined.

He forced the memory of her fingernails teasing at his waistband while her tongue burned his skin to the back of his mind.   _Commando in loose sweats: this is not the time to pop wood, Little Dean._

“I was explaining some options for a treatment plan that I’d like to run past you.”  If she'd noticed his visceral reaction to her, Erika was kind enough not to show it.

Dean quirked an eyebrow, unaware that his palm was rubbing circles over the discomfort in his abdomen.   _They aren’t going to let this go, are they?_

Erika turned the laptop toward him.  “I had to do a little research, because I usually get six months at least with a patient, but I found some modalities that are thought to work more quickly.”  She clicked on a tab, maximizing its space on the screen. “I think this one looks the most promising. It uses eye movements while remembering a traumatic event to integrate the memory fully.”

_Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing,_ Dean read.

“Certain types of events can get stuck in the wrong part of our brains -- like a song you keep singing the chorus for, because you can’t remember  how it ends," the therapist explained. "We can combine EMDR with repeated exposure -- remembering the event in as many details as possible -- to...well...figure out the ending to the song; put the memory to rest by removing its power to evoke strong emotions in you.”

“You’re actually going to help me bury this?”   _ Did Dad tell her?  _  Acid squirmed hotly up his throat, and he swallowed, resisting the urge to step back from the woman.

“Sort of.  After you process it, the experience will be like any other memory: there, but without the power to harm you.”  She looked up at him, searching his face. “How does that sound?”

The heel of his palm had settled on his sternum, pressing in as it slid in a vertical plane, as if to erase the spreading ache that had germinated beneath the bone.  

He shot a look at his father.  “I don’t...we don’t...talk...about shit.  Feelings and whatever. We talk about what went right and what went wrong, and how we can do better next time.  Right?”

Dean desperately needed to know that John would not force this horror on him.  Would remember what had happened when he’d tried before.

The elder Winchester’s gaze was unrelenting.  “You will do everything the lady asks of you, Dean.  That’s an order.”

_ He told her.  She knows. _

Dean backed away, unable to look at either of them.  His fingers traced the raised, white scar running up the inside of his forearm.

_ I can’t. _

He stumbled, knocking the chair askew with his hip.  

He didn’t slow.

The alarm on the co-conspirators' faces grew as both Erika and John realized what was happening.

“Dean -- “ Erika stood, allowing the portable computer to fall to the bed, her voice begging him to stay, to let her explain.

“Dean!”  John’s voice rang with command.

 

The wounded hunter turned, pulling the solid room door open, and released himself back into the world.

  
  
  
  
  



	6. T6

* * *

 

“Don’t try to stop him,” Erika directed the security personnel.  “He’s unarmed at the moment, and not dangerous unless provoked. Let him go, but watch him.  When he settles, let me know, and I’ll go bring him in.”

She hung up the phone.

“He’ll go for his car,” John offered.

“He doesn’t have the keys,” she countered.  

“Doesn’t matter.  He loves that thing.  She’s like home to him.  Trust me: Dean will go to her.”

“What else do you think he’ll do?”

John shrugged. “Hard to say.  Drinking and getting laid tend to be his go-tos, but he’s barefoot with no wallet or keys.”  He thought for a minute. “He’ll likely call his brother. Maybe another friend of ours who’s like an uncle to the boys.”

“Would either of them be likely to come and get him?”

“Not quickly.  Sam’s in California; Bobby’s in South Dakota.  At least as far as I know.”  He shrugged.  "Bobby's in the same business we are.  He could be traveling."

“Would Dean steal a car?”

John shrugged.  “He might. Be pretty unusual for him to take off like that, though.   Not with me laid up and all.”

Erika’s eyebrows dipped as she frowned at him.  “Does he deem himself responsible for your well-being?”

John bristled.  “We look out for one another.  It’ called ‘being a family’.”

“Of course.  I meant no offense.  You are so obviously the dominant and authoritative figure in Dean’s life that I didn’t expect --”  she shook her head. _Loyalty and protectiveness make sense.  Why does this feel like something more?_  “The point is, he isn’t likely to go far.”

“No.  Not likely.”

“Could you contact either Sam or Bobby?  Ask them to let you know when Dean reaches out to them?”

John glanced away.  “I don’t think either one of them is too happy with me right now.”

The therapist raised her eyebrows.  “Why is that?”

“I wasn’t exactly supportive of Sam’s decision to desert his family and go off to college.”

Erika tilted her head, a pensive demeanor.  “You felt betrayed?”

“Don’t ‘shrink’ me.  You’re Dean’s therapist, not mine.”

She smiled, leaning forward slightly, posture open.  “And you’re his father. I need to understand the dynamics of his close relationships if I’m to help him heal.  More specifically, if I’m to help you assist in his healing.”

John shook his head, an unconscious gesture of denial.

“You don’t want to help him?” Erika pressed.

“No… I do.  It’s just...we tried before, and...I think it got worse.”

“You were  in therapy together before?”

“Not together.  Same counselor, different sessions.”

“Yet it got worse...how?  Can you give me an example?”

He looked down at his hands, lacing his fingers together.  

Erika waited.

John did his best to avoid succumbing to the  pressure of the interrogative silence.

“Was it the rape that prompted you to seek professional help?”

She watched the man’s face tighten in irritation.  

“No. Bobby set it up.”

“Because?  Does he know about what happened to Dean?”

“Not that.  Not that Dean was...that those men...not that.”

“What, then?”

She observed the man, noting that his tension had increased steadily as they spoke.   _What is going on here?_

“I...I hurt him.  Hurt Dean.”

Erika waited.

“He’d made a mistake.  Broke a rule. That has consequences, and Dean knows it.”

The therapist maintained  her silence.

“But I...it got...out of hand.  Bobby’s never approved of the way I brought up my boys.  How I prepared Dean for this job. This life. He set this thing up with a retired psychologist, had a cab take me to the woman’s house.  I started working with her on my own, and Dean joined after --”

Erika’ phone rang, cutting the man off.  “We will get back to this, Mr. Winchester.”  She raised the phone to her ear. “Yes?”

_[“He’s gone to ground.”]_

“Where?”

_[“Parking structure.  Third level, area G.”]_

“Alright.  Keep your distance; don’t spook him.  I’m on my way.” She clicked the phone shut.  “Any suggestions for getting him back here?”

John shrugged.  “You can tell him I sent you.  That he’s to return to base, right fucking now, on my order.”

Erika felt the skin around her eyes tighten. _That would be a solid ‘no’, asshole._

“If he starts to wig out, try commanding him to stand down.  That usually gets through to him.”

“Interesting.  He recommended the same command when you were drunk and fighting us.”

John shrugged, eyes drawn to the parking structure that loomed on the edge of the scene created by his window.

 _So, you think you came back from the ‘Nam unscathed?_  She studied the man, connecting the scattered pieces of information she had gleaned, analyzing the picture that formed.   _Not bloody likely, soldier._

“Did the two of you check into a motel when you drove into town?”

“Yeah.  Place just off the highway on the west side of town.  Little run down; gotta cartoon cowboy on the sign.”

“I know the place.” She opened the narrow closet that secured patients’ personal items until they were deemed fit to be released.  She rummaged through Dean’s duffel, withdrawing the emptied pistol and leaving it behind. The rest swung over her shoulder. “Dean and I will go get you checked out.”  She turned toward the door, deliberately projecting a confidence she didn’t feel. “Back in a bit.”

 

* * *

 

 

Erika was grateful to find herself alone in the elevator.

 _These two are a hot mess._  She pictured the younger man’s lash-scarred back against the vague picture that his father had painted of their life, over-lain with the older man’s admission of uncontrolled violence.   _I’m going to need some help.  And vacation time._

She rummaged through the duffel, extracting a set of car keys, making sure to jingle them rhythmically as she exited the elevator and approached the large, black Impala waiting patiently in section G.  

 

* * *

 

Dean sat with his back against a bumper-scarred pillar, hidden from the security cameras.  He would have preferred to lean against his baby’s tire, but knew they’d come to look for him there.

He examined the cell phone cradled in his hand, wondering if they’d want to catch him badly enough to apply the resources they needed to track it.  

He hit the second number on his speed dial.

 

_[”Dean! You alright?]_

He closed his eyes.  Pain of one kind receded, while another sort flooded in to fill the void.  “Hey, Sammy. I’m good. How ‘bout you?”

_[”On my lunch break, but it’s almost over.  How come you didn’t answer my last text? You on a hunt?”]_

He opened his eyes, watching his thumbnail trace the frayed edges of a rip in his jeans.  “Not at the moment. We got the mate. It clawed Dad up pretty good, though. Had to take him in for stitches and a blood transfusion.  You know how hospitals are: made me turn my phone off.”

 _[”Jesus, Dean!  Why didn’t you call me?  Is he alright? Are_ you _alright?”]_

Dean chuckled a little.  “I just said I had to turn my phone off.  Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one? But, yeah, we’re both good.  It wasn't anything too serious.  They’ve got some hot nurses here, so we’re in no hurry to leave.”

_[”You’re still gonna try to visit before classes start, right?   Those sorority girls keep asking about you.”]_

Dean smiled.  “You bet your ass.”  A stab of longing nearly gutted him.  _Miss you, little brother._   “Damn, that was a great party.”

_[”I gotta get back to work.  Call me later?”]_

“Think I got plans with a chic later, Sam. Want me to leave it on speaker phone?”

_[”Ew.  No.”]_

Dean dried his face harshly with the sleeve of his borrowed hoodie.  “I’ll text you tonight for sure, okay? And I’ll call if I can.”

_[”Sounds good.  Be careful, alright?”]_

“You first, bitch.”

_[”Back atcha, jerk.”]_

Dean held the open device in his lap, staring at it until the screen went black.

 

* * *

 

As soon as he heard the jangle of the keys, Dean knew it was her.  The abrupt cessation of that noise followed by a soft yet emphatic, “Shit!” reached him from the vicinity of the Impala.

Dean thought about slipping through the exit door a few steps from his strategically chosen resting place.

The phone in his lap stared up at him blankly.  

He felt inexplicably exhausted.  Sculpted from stone.

He reached for anxiety or anger or even a sense of resignation, and came away empty-handed.

_I don’t care.  Find me; don’t find me.  I just. Don’t. Care._

The music of metal falling against metal resumed.

Dean ran the ball of his thumb over the numbered keypad resting against his palm.

 

_Wish I could call Bobby.  He’d come get me if I asked._

_Dad would be pissed._

_Like I'd chosen Bobby over him._

 

He’d been tracking the therapist by the sound she made, knowing that she was doing it deliberately.

It had faded as she’d made a wrong choice.   _Cold_ , he thought to himself, recalling an old children’s game.

The volume gradually increased as she doubled back on herself.   _Warmer_.

She stopped, and Dean could picture her scanning the garage, no doubt imaging herself in his position: desperate to escape, with nowhere to go.

He identified the moment that realization struck, the keys she carried almost laughing with excitement as they slapped against the rapid thrust of her stride.

She slowed to a stop as she neared his pillar.  “Dean?”

 _Hot_.  He sighed, loud enough for her to hear.  It was all he had the energy for.

He listened as she lowered herself to the grimy floor at right angles to him, rounded concrete both separating and connecting them.

They allowed the silence to envelop them for a time.

Erika was the first to breach the void. “You don’t have to tell me.  I should have started with that part.”

 

Dean waited.

 

“That’s one of the reasons I was drawn to the EMDR for you: it’s mostly internal.  I’ll need to know some things, of course, but they can be generalizations. And I didn’t mean to sound like there was a time limit, either.  We can go as slow as you need. I assumed that you’d want to get it taken care of and move on, but maybe I was wrong about that.”

 

He closed his eyes.

The comfortable emptiness was filling with the familiar chill of dread.  “Why can’t you just…” Talking felt like too much of an effort. “I’m getting it under control, alright?  I just need to not talk about it, not think about it, and get on with my life.”

He heard Erika sigh, and enjoyed the tickle of sadistic pleasure her frustration evoked.

“I was a nurse before I became a psychologist.  I told you that, right?”

Dean nodded, knowing she couldn’t see him.  Knowing it didn’t matter.

“Well...I was a combat nurse.”

He heard the scrape of fabric on painted concrete, and knew that she had shrugged one shoulder.  “Following in my mom’s footsteps, I guess. Anyway...I was young and foolish.  Naive. I romanticized it: at best, saw myself braving sand and camel spiders to heroically save the lives of attractive young men.  At my worst, I fantasized about those men falling in love with me, about falling in love myself. Envisioned a tearful proposal backlit by an airstrike that was too far away to bother us.” She scoffed at herself. “I was such an idiot.”

Denim cleared a section of gritty floor as she drew one leg in.  “I wasn’t the same person when I came back. Sullen. Angry. Impatient.  Out of place.” The keys bounced in her hand. “I had nightmares. Started drinking myself to sleep.”  

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her crossed knees, and he could see the protective curve of her back in his peripheral vision.  

“I was jittery, too.  Always had to know where everyone was, where they were looking, what they were doing with their hands.  I told my mom a little of it. She said I should take a self-defense class.”

Dean wondered if she knew that she was rocking where she sat.

“So...one class was on knife self-defense.  The instructor asked if I’d be willing to help demonstrate.  Of course I agreed.”

Her rocking had grown more pronounced.

“I remember feeling him behind me, seeing his arm coming at me from the right, a rubber knife in his fist.  The next thing I knew, he was on the ground, and I was on top of him. I had that knife tight against his throat, and I was screaming.  Not scared screaming: angry.  Enraged.  Crazed.”

He listened to a familiar pattern as she inhaled, long and deep; paused; then exhaled, loud and slow.

“If the knife had been real, I would have killed him.  Beheaded him, actually, judging by the sensation in my arms.”

She leaned back against the pillar once more.  “Then my dreams changed, my addictions worsened...I started engaging in risky behaviors.  Sexually.” Her shoulders moved against their shared buttress. “I was having trouble concentrating.  Quit taking care of myself. My apartment was a disaster.” She sighed. “My mother called me out on it, told me I had PTSD or depression or both.  I argued. She dared me to prove her wrong by seeing a shrink, getting tested.”

 

Dean waited.

 

“She was right.  And the counseling...it was tough.  I’d buried so much, you know? Put stuff away, trying to forget, to pretend it never happened...and it was killing me.  I was ruining my health, destroying my career, driving people away. But I started seeing…” She paused. “As I got better, I had a new goal.”  A smile entered her voice, self-deprecating. “A new way to save all of those attractive, heroic young men.” She rolled onto her shins, kneeling just beyond his reach, her face  painful in its earnest intent. “I know what it’s like, Dean. I’ve been there: the trauma, but also the counseling. I won’t let it destroy you, okay?"  She held out her hand.   "Trust me.”

 

His keyring shifted on her palm.

 

He raised his eyes to hers, searching.  The pain and shame and longing there mirrored his own.

_She needs this.  She needs to try to help me._

He reached out, fingers curling over metal warmed by her touch, and accepted her offering.  “Okay.” His voice was as alien to him as if it had emanated from a stranger. “Where do we start?”

She smiled, winking at him.  “Your motel room.”

"So, a Freudian, then."

Her laughter was genuine.  "You never cease to amaze me, Dean Winchester."

He rose, winking as he offered his hand.  "Lady, you ain't seen nothin' yet."

 


End file.
